Wait! Guys! Is the early 2000's Diva dead?

If you were not a human girl child who came of age between the years of 2004 and 2009 you probably won't enjoy reading this.

Okay, to start, divas ruled my childhood. I have a very specific reader in mind for this piece – so if you didn't grow up as an awkward zillennial (definition: born in 1996 – not quite Gen Z, not millennial, doomed to wander the generational abyss talking halfheartedly about Harry Potter and Jesse Mcartney forevermore, etc) .

Essentially – if you didn’t come of age surrounded by hot pink fuzzy accessories, Lip Smackers and clandestine glimpses of the Pussycat Dolls squealing about BOOBIES on tiny TV’s suspended in that awkward high ceiling bit of your local takeaway shop, then this story probably won’t resonate, so go watch the news or something. Lucky you.

Anyways, if you are my very specific target audience (eg, my five closest friends) then you’ll understand what I’m talking about. The early 2000’s divas probably hit different to me as a small child because they were my first introduction to the blazing and earth-shaking power of brazen female sexuality.

My mother, a 90’s feminist lawyer also really hated them, with her most particular hatred reserved for the 2000’s patron saints – The Pussycat Dolls. DON’T LOOK AT THAT! She’d shriek, as we left a dance studio or an ice cream shop and the tiny music videos were doing their saucy thing. THIS IS OBJECTIFICATION OF THE HIGHEST ORDER. YOU ARE WORTH MORE THAN THIS. WHERE ARE THEIR BRAINS?????

Idk about you, but when someone tells you not to look at something, you kind of want to look a little bit more. The nasally screech of Nicole Scherzinger whimpering about growing up and being careful WHAT YOU WISH FOR OR YOU JUST MIGHT GET IT GEEEEDDIT has quite literally been stuck in my head for twenty years. That is a genius pop song. And I hate it.

Tbh not sure of any of their names other than Nicole Scherzinger (cute pink mittens doll)

Oh also, Ke$ha’s Tik Tok has done the same thing for me, but I don’t think that it’s because she’s a diva, but more so because the tune of that godforsaken anthem has been genetically engineered to tear through our tenderest brain membranes for as long as human beings have access to the internet. No offence, Ke$ha. You’re more successful than I’ll ever be. The catchiness of that evil ballad pops into the rare times in my head when I’m a) alone on a walk in the bush or b) at a funeral. Spoiler: This doesn’t happen very often.

Deep and sincere apologies to anyone triggered by this image.

Anyways, shitty tunes, disembodied female forms and nasal poppy screaming aside, the early 2000’s diva remained one of the most powerful forces on the planet. The mini skirts, the fierce midrifs, the wanton eyes fluttering at the camera. As a little kid I was more bemused by it, than anything. Personally, I actually didn’t want to BE a diva. But I did want to study them.

The divas raised important questions. Was I meant to have a glowing six pack? Was I meant to get an ashy blonde side fringe? Was a butterfly bellybutton piercing my inevitable and fated destiny? It was these things that kept me up at night. That, and also my considerably more fierce fascination with Victorian fairytales and wanting to wear a petticoat (but that’s another story).

At school, the cool girls knew all about the divas. They had the So Fresh Hits 2003 CD and brought it to school like it was a smug little firstborn son, stroking it possessively. They’d wear cute little pink pleated skirts and knew how to break it down like Britney Spears in their weekly hip-hop dance class that I was (and still am) too terrified to ever join. No coordination, or natural rhythm. A book girl’s curse. So sad :(

The teenage girls that I witnessed at my friend’s houses on Saturday morning Disney (my parents didn’t believe in commercial TV) were all mega divas and clearly that made them mega cool. Lizzie Maguire was the ultimate dream girl, obvs. Paris Hilton was illegal, as far as my household was concerned. Britney was Britney. Jessica Alba in Honey was who we all knew we’d transform into once we hit the glorious age of 17.

On reflection, all of this may explain why we’re all so fucked up, actually.

Anyway – it’s 2024 now and I’ve been looking for the Diva and honestly, I’m not sure if I’ve found her. Not in the same way, anyway. Gen Z, who exited the womb at the same time that we watched the Pussycat Dolls swing their rock hard abs, have now decided that the early 2000’s were the height of cool and they’ve brought IT BACK.

Personally, I’m not into this renaissance. Mostly because baring my midsection while wearing a brown smock and low rise cargo pants just doesn’t do it for me – but also because replication never hits the same as cold, hard reality.

Despite how many youthful influencers pose on the grid with their butterfly belly button piercings, trendy tramp stamps, and highly tweezed eyebrows, the essential ‘diva-ism’ of the 2000’s feels like it has actually vanished into the ether, carried away on the toxic slipstream of Instagram ads.

Maybe because I was a child looking up with love-heart eyes at the problematic gals of 2000’s day’s past, but there was a certain originality to the 2000’s diva that I don’t think exists anymore. You know, once it’s gone, you can’t get it back (and all that JAZZ).

I’ve been living in Brooklyn, New York for about a year now (also known as hallowed birthplace of several key 2000’s divas), and I’ve born witness (almost daily) to the resurgence of Y2K hell amongst the good, rich little rulers of Bushwick. We’ve got the little, ugly glasses. We’ve got the brown midi-skirts. We’ve got the furious little “IDGAF (although actually, I really really do)” strut. It’s all a little exhausting.

This adamant refusal to let these poor dead divas stay in 2002 is a bit annoying. There’s no bringing that innocent, lip-gloss-tint back. Just look at what millennials did to the 70’s in 2011, for fuck’s sake. All those bell bottom jeans and faux leather fringe jackets. Oh god! Stevie Knicks probably wept everyday that year.

Anyway, I’ve decided that as much as I do respect the OG divas (making their poppy little way best they could in a brutal Hollywood man’s world) I am kind of glad their age is done.

Obviously, we’ve got modern day divas now (Sabrina Carpenter, etc, etc). They’re all spunky and pretty and nice and thin and jump on brain-numbing Tik Tok trends and kiss blue aliens at the VMA’s—all the classic diva shit. BUT, they do have a sense of agency about them that I never saw in the empty eyes of the young women who ruled the TV screens of my youth.

They crack jokes. They dance the way they want to on stage. They are unfiltered in interviews. They have political stances that they make public. They are dynamic, and spunky. Their value is not 100% relegated to the shape of their abdominal muscles (although maybe like 89% is, we’ve still got problems).

I suppose at the end of all this, I just want a new decade to come round and get people’s gears going. The 2000’s diva is dead, and that’s perfectly okay with me.